


Mend

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26573539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: A man comes to repair the dishwasher.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28





	Mend

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“Kara! Get the door!”

“Yes, Todd,” she answers on instinct—on pure protocol, as though if he hadn’t screamed her name, she wouldn’t have heard the knock. Despite being bent over at the sink with the running water in her ear, she heard it perfectly; her auditory processors are in full working order. Like most of her senses, her hearing’s actually _superior_ to Todd’s.

But Kara is a simple AX400 model, programmed for menial chores and complicity, so she talks in a soft voice that can only agree. She lets the dirty plate sink own into the water and turns the faucet off, swiveling in the same motion to cross the kitchen. Todd’s still slumped on the living room couch, exactly like he’s been since noon, when he first stumbled down and demanded pizza. Alice is cross-legged on the tile floor, back against the refrigerator, making her toy fox perform an informal dance. Kara can’t help a small smile as she passes—she’s fairly certain Alice is suffering the cold, hard floor so she can be near Kara, even though there’s plenty of room on the couch next to her father.

Kara wouldn’t want to sit with Todd either. Of course, Kara doesn’t technically _want_ things. She opens the door and plasters on a generic greeting: “Hello.”

The enormous man on her doorstep smiles softly down at her and mirrors, “Hello.” Kara tilts her head and takes him in—every giant inch of him.

Unlike Todd, he isn’t all that thick around, but quite tall going up, with close-cropped black hair and dark brown skin, gentle features to his face but broad shoulders and well-defined muscles drawing his t-shirt tight. There’s a logo over his left breast that Kara recognizes, and then she puts it together, supposing: “You must be here for the dishwasher.”

He nods and lifts a cardboard package in his right hand. “Yes. I have the replacement part.” There’s a slight pause where his eyes sweep over her in return, catching for a fraction of a second on the name printed across her uniform. She sees the way he looks at her LED, and then he offers, “Would you like help installing it?”

Kara isn’t a technical model. She doesn’t have the necessary programming to repair complex machinery, though perhaps she could figure it out if she tried. It would certainly be easier to let a professional do it. She opens her mouth to say _yes, thank you_ , except Todd bellows over her, “Who is it?”

The man on the doorstep tells her, “My name’s Luther,” which is nice to know, but not what Todd wants. 

Kara calls back without looking, “The repairman. For the dishwasher.”

“For fuck’s sake, is the damn thing broken again...?”

It’s been broken for a week, but of course Todd wouldn’t notice that—he hasn’t done a single dish since Kara’s return. Kara ignores his meandering grumble, processing it as rhetorical, and steps aside. She tells Luther, “Please, come in.”

Luther nods politely. He follows her inside and kicks out of his shoes while she shuts the door behind him. He’s down to socks before she can say that really isn’t necessary—no matter how hard she tries, the floors are never clean. A quick look around, and he spots the kitchen, but he waits for her rather than charging through. Kara tells him, “Right this way,” and guides him.

Todd doesn’t even look over. Alice looks up, then does a double take, perhaps because Luther’s built like one of the superheroes in her storybooks. His head almost brushes the ceiling. He smiles down at Alice when they pass: a warm, beautiful thing full of the same affection that’s plaguing Kara’s system. _Todd_ never looks at Alice like that. But Luther seems to see right away that Alice is an adorable, sweet child, one that tentatively smiles back before hiding her face behind her toy. 

Luther kneels down in front of the dishwasher, not far off from Alice, and asks her, “I might have to make a bit of noise—is that okay?”

Alice’s eyes go wide, probably at being consulted on household decisions. She nods, and Todd grunts, “Just do what you gotta do.” And then the sounds of his hockey game are amplified, the television volume turned up enough to drown out Luther pulling the door down. 

Kara doesn’t have to watch. She has things to do. Dishes to wash. Laundry to wash. Magazines to put away, crumbs to vacuum up, trash to take out—dozens of little things that come up each and every day, all as a result of Todd just _existing_. But Todd doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to them, and Kara, if only to make sure Alice is alright, kneels down next to Luther.

Luther gives her another friendly look and bends forward into the washer, producing a screwdriver from the long pockets of his pants to untwist the inner shelves. Kara tilts her head to watch, noting in her peripherals that Alice is leaning closer too.

Luther pulls the shelves out one by one, then goes back in for the actual siding. As he works, he hums, “Kara—that’s a nice name. Where did it come from?”

Kara’s not entirely sure of the origin, but she can say, “Alice chose it.”

Luther pokes his head out long enough to tell Alice, “Ahh, Alice, that’s an even nicer name. How did you come up with ‘Kara’?”

Alice blinks at him, but doesn’t answer, which is about what Kara expected—she’s incredibly shy, especially when it comes to strangers. Luther doesn’t push her, just nods and returns to his work. He does try, “And what about the fox? Do they have a name?”

Alice doesn’t answer that immediately either, but she does toy with the fox’s ears, then eventually mumbles, “Cheshire.”

Kara glances over—she didn’t know that. She hadn’t thought to ask since getting Alice on speaking terms. Luther says, “Like the cat. Of course. That’s very clever.”

Alice mumbles, “Thank you,” and hugs ‘Cheshire’ tight against her chest. Kara feels something skitter in her program—a tiny glitch that pops up every now and then, usually during time spent with Alice, not big enough to warrant telling Todd but enough to make her wonder. Sometimes it feels like her thirium pump’s beating too fast. She stares down at Luther’s handsome figure and feels the same swell of _extra_ data. Despite all the odds, Alice clearly likes this man. That _means_ something.

That man is incredibly efficient. Kara watches him use his single screwdriver to dismantle the entire dishwasher, and he lays each piece out on the floor behind him at perfect angles, the exact same space between them. He even manages to pop open the packaging on the spare part without looking, head still inside the washer, and then he’s fitting the new piece in without asking for a flashlight or her to hand him anything. It occurs to her that she should’ve offered him water. Humans like that. The fridge is full of cold beers she could fetch him, but Todd would throw a fit if she did. 

In a few minutes, Luther’s got the whole thing put together again, just the way it was, but _better_ —things secured tighter, wedged at the right angles, fit like a well oiled machine. Luther withdraws and shuts the door, but stays where he is long enough to tell Alice, “There you go. Now Cheshire can eat off clear dishes again.”

Alice doesn’t say anything to that, but she does move her fox’s hand, as though waving Luther goodbye. Luther reaches out and shakes the tiny paw, which makes Alice giggle. The noise sends a shockwave through Kara’s system—she can feel her LED burning yellow at her temple. She didn’t even know Alice _could_ make that sound.

Kara climbs to her feet when Luther does. He gathers up the open packaging, and she should offer to take that, but for some reason, she doesn’t, instead just dazedly following him back to the door. He opens it himself, letting himself out, and then he turns to her. She gives him one last, “Thank you.”

Luther smiles and holds out his hand. Kara glances down at it. She recognizes the gesture, but it’s not a courtesy people usually pay androids. In her own way, she’s reeling.

She takes his hand. She lets her palm slide against his, and then his skin’s peeling back, leaving a shock of white beneath it that’s quickly swallowed by her grip. Her own coating dissolves automatically, and just like that, the two of them are _touching_ , _raw_ , her delicate plating against his. She realizes all at once that he’s an _android_ , missing an LED and pulling expressions like any human, holding a light behind his eyes that screams of _life_. He whispers in his mind, _“I’ll always leave this channel open. If you ever need help, let me know, you or the little one, and I’ll be there for you.”_

Kara’s left speechless. The data that rushes into her—his contact information and a dozen others’, a whole _group_ of them and even a _location_ —it’s utterly overwhelming. She didn’t know that androids could _do that._

Then the transfer’s complete, and his hand falls away, leaving hers horribly empty. He tells her, “Goodbye, Kara.”

Somehow, Kara gets out, “Goodbye, Luther.” And then he’s trailing down the driveway, turning onto the sidewalk, and walking out of sight. And she’s still left standing there, newly aware of everything around her, from how _not right_ the plastic bag of red ice on the coffee table is to just how much Alice means to her. 

Processing, Kara shuts the door. Then she fetches Alice and promises, this time meaning every word, “It’s going to be okay.”


End file.
